Sandoval Calone]. O Henry ! always striv'st thou

to be great
By thine own act—yet art thou never great
But by the inspiration of great passion.
The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up
And shape themselves ; from earth to heaven they

stand,
As though they were the pillars of a temple,
Built by Omnipotence in its own honor !
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit
Is fed; the mighty columns were but sand,
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins !

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF

HER INNOCENCE.

MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soiled beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray!
When the partridge o'er the sheaf

Whirred along the yellow vale,
Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf !

Love the dalliance of the gale.
Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!

Heave and flutter to his sighs,
While the flatterer, on his wing,

Wooed and whispered thee to rise.
Gaily from thy mother-stalk

Wert thou danced and wafted high-
Soon on this unsheltered walk

Flung to fade, to rot, and die.

As these two swans together heave

On the gently swelling wave.

Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

And dreamt that I had died for care;
All pale and wasted I would seem,

Yet fair withal, as spirits are !
I'd die indeed, if I might see
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1795.

THE PICTURE;
OR THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION.

THRO
HROUGH weeds and thorns, and matted un-

derwood
I force my way; now climb, and now descend
O’er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen,
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil
I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,
Beckons me on, or follows from behind,
Playmate or guide! The master-passion quelled,
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark
The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse :

Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul, | And of this busy human heart aweary,

Worships the spirit of unconscious life
In tree or wild flower.—Gentle lunatic!
If so he might not wholly cease to be,
He would far rather not be that, he is;
But would be something, that he knows not of,
In winds or waters, or among the rocks.

And you, ye

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion

here! No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird Easily caught, ensnare him, 0 ye Nymphs, Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades! Earth-winds!

you

that make at morn The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs! You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze, Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow-bedYe, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, Now pant and murmur with her feeling lamb. Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes ! With prickles sharper than his darts bemock His little Godship, making him perforce Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back.

This is my hour of triumph! I can now With my own fancies play the merry fool,

As these two swans together heave

On the gently swelling wave.

Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

And dreamt that I had died for care;
All pale and wasted I would seem,

Yet fair withal, as spirits are !
I'd die indeed, if I might see
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1795.

THE PICTURE;

OR THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION. THROUGH weeds and thorns, and matted un

derwood I force my way; now climb, and now descend O’er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen, Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil I know not, ask not whither! A new joy, Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust, And gladsome as the first-born of the spring, Beckons me on, or follows from behind, Playmate or guide! The master-passion quelled, I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak, Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake Soar up, and form a melancholy vault High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse :
Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul,
And of this busy human he:urt aweary,
Worships the spirit of unconscious life
In tree or wild flower.-Gentle lunatic!
If so he might not wholly cease to be,
He would far rather not be that, he is;
But would be something, that he knows not of,
In winds or waters, or among the rocks.

And you, ye

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion

here! No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird Easily caught, ensnare bim, O ye Nymphs, Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! Earth-winds! you

that make at morn The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs! You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze, Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow-bedYe, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, Now pant and murmur with her feeling lamb. Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes ! With prickles sharper than his darts bemock His little Godship, making him perforce Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back.

This is my hour of triumph! I can now With my own fancies play the merry fool,